


Rainbow Tape

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Holding [6]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 15:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18264149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: Brad takes care of Patrice when he gets sick before the preseason. In return, Patrice helps Brad with some important decisions.





	Rainbow Tape

Brad is just sitting at home on his computer, giving Patrice shit for something over his cell phone. His friend’s reply makes him immediately forget what it was he’d been annoyed about.

 **Bergy:** _I’m sick you should come take care of me_

 **Me:** _on my way_

He thought Patrice was about to fly up and see his family for a couple weeks, but apparently not. Brad doesn’t blame him, really. Flying sucks anyway but flying after you catch something is murder. He doesn’t know what his friend is sick with, so he goes to the store and gets Advil, cough syrup, ginger ale, canned soup… he remembers how his mom took care of him when he was sick as a kid.

Brad’s not really thinking, just reacting. If he'd been thinking sensibly about this, he would’ve been realizing how weird this could get considering his stupid, making-heart-eyes, overwhelming crush on Patrice. He’s not thinking about that at all. It doesn’t even occur to him.

Climbing the stairs to the apartment, Brad’s somehow surprised that Patrice answers the door in his boxers and looking like death. Apparently it also didn’t occur to him that sick people do, in fact, look sick. Thank fuck it’s summer between seasons, because if Patrice showed up for practice (or, god forbid, a game) like this and tried to play through it, it would be a disaster.

Brad follows Patrice inside and sets his bags of supplies on the table - Patrice doesn’t even say anything and just stumbles into his room to collapse back on the bed with his arm thrown across his face.

“So… uh, what’re your symptoms?” he asks from the doorway.

Patrice lists them in a miserable voice and ends with “I was throwing up for awhile, but that stopped.”

Brad grabs the bottle of ginger ale and goes over to the bed where his friend is sprawled. “I want you to drink all of this.”

“I’m not thirsty…”

“I’m not kidding, Pat. You need to stay hydrated and shit.” He feels a little bad for forcing Patrice, but it needs to happen. “Have you taken anything?”

“Cough syrup… Tylenol. Think that’s it.”

“Okay.” Brad checks the time on his phone - it’s already seven at night. “Nothing else until tomorrow, unless you want to end up in the ER.”

Patrice whines in protest about that and later, much later, Brad will think back on this and how funny it is that their roles are reversed, him being the reasonable one while Patrice sulks and is miserable. Right now, he just rolls his eyes and repeats himself, because apparently it needs to be said again.

“Will you hold my hand?” Patrice asks and Brad does a double-take.

He reasons that his friend must be really, really out of it from whatever kind of virus is running its course. So there’s no harm done if Brad complies. (No harm to anyone except Brad, who would stop at nothing to help this man at his own expense and will be more unhappy later on when he misses getting to do this.) He still decides to make a thing out of it, though.

“Why?”

“Please?” Patrice half-begs, in a voice that says he’s really sick and needs the comfort.

Brad sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m going to make fun of you for it later.” It’s not true. He would never chirp Patrice to begin with most of the time, and definitely not about this. So for the next few minutes he stands by the bed, holding his sick friend’s hand and doing his best not to think about it. “How long do you want me to hang around here with you?”

“Please don’t go,” Patrice answers immediately, tightening his grip.

Brad desperately ignores all the _feelings_ that try to pop up in his chest and nods, even though half of Patrice’s face is buried under a pillow. “Okay. Uh. Well, y’know, if you moved over, I could sit down. It’d be way more comfortable for me.”

Patrice complies, dragging himself to one side and making room for Brad to settle on the mattress. It’s a really nice bed with memory foam, he notes. For a few minutes he sits, making sure that Patrice takes sips of the ginger ale every so often, then eventually lays down himself because it’s comfier on his back, still holding hands.

“Why is your tv on and muted if you’re just going to cover your eyes?” Brad asks.

“Comforting…”

 _Yeah, but you’ve got me here to comfort you now,_ he thinks, then berates himself for it and instead tells Patrice how stupid that sounds when he can’t hear or see the movie that’s playing.

After awhile, Patrice falls asleep (thankfully having finished the ginger ale). Brad, though, can’t sleep. Partly because he’s not sure he’s allowed - he _is_ supposed to be taking care of his sick friend, after all - and partly because of Wilson. The small dog is smart enough not to yap and make a fuss when Patrice needs rest, but Brad is fair game. Every time he closes his eyes for a few seconds, Wilson jumps up on the bed and headbuts him right in the face.

Brad manages, after much too long, to get about an hour’s worth of sleep. He wakes up with a massive hard-on despite his exhaustion, which he wills away by thinking about how annoying it is that Patrice’s dog isn’t letting him rest.

Looking over to the left is an immediate mistake - Patrice is curled up with his back to Brad, and in the growing light of morning doesn’t look gross and sick. For some reason Brad becomes focused on the details of his hair where his skull meets his neck, because it looks so soft and so nice and-

 _No!_ Brad Marchand is many things but he isn’t someone who just puts his fingers in people’s hair while they’re trying to sleep off the norovirus. So instead he slowly gets up, disturbing the weight distribution of the mattress as little as possible, and feeds his friend’s dog. He notes in the process that there are only two cans left.

Brad makes himself eggs for breakfast, which he’ll replace later when he goes out to buy dog food. He eats from the counter, knowing that if he sits he won’t want to get back up again and there’s stuff he has to do which requires him to not be passed out on the couch. Brad glances around - Patrice’s apartment isn’t a disaster zone or anything, but it could use some tidying and a cleaner environment will help him get better sooner. So Brad gets to it. He does the dishes, Swiffers the floors, wipes the kitchen surfaces. Vacuuming would be loud and wake up Patrice, but he can still dust the living room with a paper towel.

Afterwards, he goes back into the bedroom and puts his hand on Patrice’s shoulder. “I’m going out to get dog food and some other stuff.”

“Okay…” Patrice mumbles, not opening his eyes. He coughs for a long moment and then settles back down. “Can you walk him for me after?”

“Sure.”

Brad goes to the store. Dog food, more ginger ale, canned soup (because he forgot that he already bought some yesterday). Then he runs home to grab his deodorant and change his clothes before heading back. He walks Wilson and forces Patrice to eat one of the twelve cans of chicken soup as well as drink another whole bottle of ginger ale, and Patrice already looks slightly better than when Brad showed up yesterday night.

“Wilson kept waking me up,” Brad lightly complains around a mouthful of turkey sandwich as Patrice is taking an agonizingly slow time to choke down the soup.

Surprisingly, his friend manages to chuckle. “Yeah, he does that… the last guy I was dating Wilson kept jumping on his feet.”

Brad doesn’t think he caught that right - Patrice has dated other men? How has he not heard about this? Brad tries to play it cool. _Tries_ being the operative word. “I didn’t know you were into dick.”

Patrice almost chokes on his food and between coughs starts laughing again. “I like both. Just… the media would have a field day, so… I have to be careful.”

“Is that why rookies never bother you with their stupid ‘gay chicken’ bullshit?”

“No, they’re just scared of me. I’m not sure why, though, I’m always nice to them.” Patrice grudgingly takes another bite. “Why, do they go after you sometimes?”

“Yeah, for about five seconds until they realize I’m better at it than all of them put together,” Brad grins. With what Patrice has just revealed, now seems like a good time to share this information. “You can’t play gay chicken with an actual gay guy, after all.”

Patrice shrugs. “Yeah, I figured.”

Brad freezes. “You figured what?”

“That it wouldn’t work if the person is attracted to other men. And that you’re gay.”

“Shit, really? Who else knows?”

“Z asked me about it once after he figured it out on his own. I’m surprised he didn’t talk to you… he wanted to know if we were dating.”

“What the hell, Pat! Why didn’t you tell me?” Brad demands.

“It… didn’t seem like that big of a deal,” Patrice replies, looking confused. “He asked, I said no, and that was the end of it. I thought he would’ve just spoken with you about it.”

Brad rolls his eyes. “Next time, you gotta tell me if someone’s asking things like that.”

“Alright, I will. I’m sorry I didn’t, I really didn’t think it was a big deal.” From anyone else, it would sound insincere or condescending, but Brad knows Patrice is being completely honest.

“Whatever. Eat your damn soup, it’s good for you and shit.”

So… Patrice already knew he’s gay. And yet still asked Brad to hold his hand before subsequently letting Brad cuddle him off to sleep last night. That’s… really confusing. Kind of. Patrice is too nice and too perfect to let something like this bother him, and is also apparently bisexual so he wouldn’t care anyway. It’s a lot to take in at once.

After lunch, Brad forces Patrice to go back to bed despite claims (which are obvious lies) that he’s “feeling much better” and “should really give Wilson his afternoon walk”.

“I’m giving him his afternoon walk,” Brad growls, all but shoving his friend down onto the mattress. “You’re going to go back to sleep before you pass out where you’re standing, hit your head, and get concussed for the however-many-thousandth time.”

Patrice is already almost gone, not bothering to cover himself with the blankets and grinning tiredly up at Brad: “Okay, Marchy… you can walk him for me…”

Brad pulls the blankets onto his willfully-stupid friend, then takes the dog out. As he walks, he thinks - Patrice has dated other men. Why can’t he get unstuck from this little piece of info? It’s not helping anything. Because if Patrice has been dating guys this whole time and known Brad secretly dates guys this whole time too, but said nothing about it, then that’s a pretty fucking obvious sign that, no, Patrice isn’t into him and he needs to let it go already. Besides, he’s _way_ too old for this dumbass crushing-on-someone-who-I’ll-never-have bullshit. It just needs to stop and there’s no two ways around it.

Back in Patrice’s apartment, his friend is sleeping so Brad rearranges the cans of soup and then sits on the couch, moping and exhausted. Wilson jumps up to settle at his right and he absently pets the small animal while he sulks. How long has he been drooling after Patrice, now? Years, probably… thinking on it, Brad can’t remember a time when he _wasn’t_ head-over-heels for this guy. So, yup. Years.

Most of the time, all Brad’s boyfriends had broken up with him for the same reason: during the season, he would only let them call him, not be seen with him, not go places with him for dates. Because the media’s always all over him during the season, and he’s not “out” or anything, so it was a risk for his career and his credibility. He understands why nobody’s ever been okay with that - in their shoes, he wouldn’t be, either. So his job prevents him from having romantic relationships. Even besides that, though, if he were to come out publicly (ignoring the massive fucking backlash that would bring), there’s also the issue of road trips; he’s away from Boston a lot, weeks at a time in some cases, which sometimes even strains his heterosexual team mates’ relationships. It makes it so a lot of things just aren’t doable in the first place when it comes to dating.

Staying with this current pattern of behavior, Brad will never be able to have a relationship until he’s forty-something and retires from the NHL. It’s a lonely thought.

So, because Brad is the fucking emperor of bad ideas that aren’t considered long enough to get dismissed like they should be, he decides to ask Patrice for some pointers when his friend wakes up again. Maybe Patrice does things differently, has efficient ways of sneaking around during the season so that he can have actual relationships that last longer than just the summer.

“Hey Pat,” Brad starts as he’s forcing another bowl of soup into his friend’s hands for dinner, “how do you do dating? I mean, you specifically.”

Patrice manages to look startled through his tired, sick expression. “Um… what do you mean?”

“I mean can you date people during the season without getting caught? ’Cause if you can, you gotta tell me how.”

“Well… I don’t actually date that much, Brad.”

“Right, because you have girlfriends too.”

“No, I mean at all,” Patrice counters, shaking his head before grimacing at his bowl and poking disinterestedly at a cluster of noodles. “I don’t like it. A lot of the time it’s people who just want to be able to have someone famous as their boyfriend, and I don’t need that. It’s really disrespectful and shallow, and it’s not what I want. In the end I just don’t see people that often. And… this might seem stupid, but I kind of prefer men most of the time and end up dating mostly women because I’m scared of getting caught. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“It’s okay,” Brad shrugs, even though it’s really, really not. He grins and hopes Patrice can’t tell how self-deprecating it really is. “I’m used to being alone by now.”

Patrice, of course, sees right through him like always. “I know you’re not telling me something, Bradley. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, just - it’s not a big deal. There’s nothing I can do about it, there’s nothing you can do about it, so… why even think about it at all?”

Patrice seems like he wants to argue, but then almost does a face-plant into his food due to sheer exhaustion and props up his head on his palm. “This discussion’s not over,” he insists, playing with his spoon but not actually lifting it to his mouth.

“You need to eat that, Pat, I’m serious.”

“I know… canned soup is so disgusting…”

“Yeah, it is, but I didn’t have time to make real soup from scratch,” Brad apologizes as he takes a bite of his salad. It seems almost unbelievable that Patrice Bergeron, who’s played through such things as cracked ribs and punctured lungs and broken feet (to name only a few), is nearly unable to finish a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup. But Brad really can’t blame him for this one. Condensed soup is usually all the wrong textures, too salty, to greasy, whatever. “I’ll go out tomorrow morning and get stuff to make real soup for you,” he promises.

Patrice nods in what most people would consider to be an agreeable way, but Brad can see the words _thank fucking god_ written all over his face.

They watch tv on the bed after dinner - or, more accurately, Brad watches tv while Patrice dozes on and off again. Eventually his own exhaustion catches up with him and after last night a very sad Wilson is banished by closing the bedroom door. Brad falls asleep almost immediately and wakes up a little past eight the next morning. He didn’t dream last night and now Patrice is draped over him from the left, snoring a little and drooling on his shoulder. He’s less pale than he was yesterday, though, which is good.

Brad starts to get up, but his movements wake Patrice, who clings to him and whines for him to stay put. Brad deserves an award for managing not to laugh in response as he gently extricates himself. “I’m going to make you some breakfast, and then I’ll walk Wilson for you and go get stuff for soup.”

“Okay…”

He does exactly that, managing on the third try to make some toast for Patrice that isn’t too burnt and then a cup of tea. For himself, there’s corn flakes and juice. Brad tries not to watch his friend eat too intently, because that would be creepy and he knows it.

“You’re not going to make me stay here, are you?” Patrice asks as Brad’s putting on his shoes.

“I was planning to, yeah,” Brad answers.

“Well, can you not? Sitting around waiting to get better is really boring.”

Actually, that’s a good sign. Brad thinks he heard once that hospital patients know they’re getting better once the boredom and restlessness sets in. Patrice is recovering. It’s this knowledge that makes him roll his eyes and groan. “Fine, you can go to the store with me, but if you look like you’re going to pass out I’m taking you straight back here. And you’re not walking the dog with me, you need to rest.”

He waits for Patrice to get dressed and then they drive to the store. The broth for the soup will still be fake, Brad muses as he puts a box of Swanson into the cart, but the rest is all the real deal. He gets the egg noodles and the chicken and the vegetables and everything, explaining to Patrice that lunch will still have to be the canned shit because real soup takes too long to make.

They go back so that Patrice can sleep some more (no matter how determined he looks not to) and Brad walks the dog before getting started on the soup. He chops up vegetables, slices chicken, puts things together on the stove. And while he does this, Brad thinks some more. He wishes… fuck it. There’s no point in lying to himself anymore, that this is a stupid crush or any of that. He wishes Patrice loved him back. That doesn’t really seem like it’s possible, though, and Brad will take care of his friend regardless.

He thinks about Pride Night during the season, where they all practice with rainbow-taped sticks. Brad always likes doing that, even though he’s not out, because he wants all those fans and all those kids to have hope for themselves. Shit. It’s only now he realizes how fucking hypocritical that really is, trying to tell them it’s okay when he won’t even validate that statement by being honest to the world around him.

So, because his brain can never catch up with his mouth, this pops out as he’s dishing up Patrice’s last bowl of awful condensed soup: “Do you think I should come out on Pride Night this season?”

Patrice looks really surprised, for some reason. “Is this what you didn’t want to talk about before?” Brad shrugs, because it’s easier than trying to lie verbally. “Brad, I think… it’s up to you. I can’t tell you what you should or shouldn’t do with your life, except that you really need to get less penalty minutes. But, if you do decide to, you already know I’ll back you up. Even if someone on the team gives you an unpleasant surprise and isn’t accepting, and especially when the whole world gets into an uproar. I know Z will stick up for you, too, and probably most of the guys will if not all of them.”

“I was just thinking earlier - about how we do the whole thing with _You Can Play_ and all that shit, and then there’s me standing there with the fucking rainbow tape and lying by pretending that tape’s not also for me,” Brad mutters, glaring down like it’s his food’s fault.

“Well, like I said, I can’t make that choice for you,” Patrice answers softly. “I can’t even make that choice for myself… I’m not as brave as you.”

“What if I got traded?”

“You won’t get traded, Marchy. If they try to trade you I’ll threaten to leave, too.”

Brad chuckles. “That would shut them up in a hurry.”

“We’re a package deal,” Patrice smiles. “If they toss you, they toss us both, so you’re safe.”

Brad tries as hard as he can to ignore how warm and fuzzy that makes him feel inside, but he can’t stop the huge grin from appearing in response. “Thanks, man.”

“You never have to ask for my support, Brad. You’ve always had it and you always will.”

The topic strays to less uncomfortable things after that, ending up with Patrice insisting that no, he’s _not_ going back to sleep after lunch, he’s too bored to sleep and he wants to watch tv or something instead while Brad finishes up the soup.

“As long as you’re resting,” Brad concedes as he puts the dishes in the sink.

He checks the soup before taking Wilson out for the afternoon walk, still thinking like he’s been doing pretty much since he got here a couple days ago. Brad _is_ seriously considering coming out on Pride Night, but he’s also still longing after Patrice in a stupid-heartbroken-shitty-romance-novel way. Taking care of his friend like this, Brad finally understands that expression “labor of love.” Because that’s what this is. He’s looking after Patrice, readily and without complaint, just because he loves him. Nothing more, nothing less.

The irony isn’t lost on Brad, as he’s stirring the soup and getting ready to finally add the noodles, that while he’s seriously entertaining the thought of explaining his sexual orientation to a huge crowd of strangers he’s also unable to just fucking admit how he feels to Patrice. Because the second thing is more distressing and more unthinkable than the first thing, even though the first thing is ridiculous and invasive and more than a little humiliating. But talking to Patrice, facing the inevitable rejection and “I’ll always be your best friend, Marchy” speech, is unbearable as a concept.

Patrice at one point wanders into the kitchen and looks over Brad’s shoulder to see how the soup is progressing. Brad in equal parts wants to lean back into his friend’s warmth and scream what he’s thinking: _Don’t you know how much you’re torturing me, Bergy?!_ He manages to do neither of those things, and instead just reports on how the food is almost ready and Patrice will have a much better dinner tonight.

Brad thinks some more as he spoons out two bowls - since his soup isn’t shit like canned soup is, he’s going to eat some, too. He wonders, in the interest of fucking torturing himself, how it would be if he was with Patrice and lived here. They’d take turns walking Wilson, depending on what needed doing during the day, or maybe walk him together. Brad would cook most of the time and Patrice would make sure he actually ate the vegetables he put into the food. During the season, they’d have to be careful, but it’d be easier to hide than if they were dating other guys because Brad and Patrice are already friends who’ve been known to hang out a lot off the ice as it is.

“This already looks and smells so much better,” Patrice comments as he sits down to eat.

“Of course it does, everything I do is always better,” Brad grins, solely with the intent to see his friend’s eyes roll (which succeeds).

“Thank you for this,” Patrice offers sincerely after several bites of soup. “Not just the food, for everything. Coming over and helping me out.”

“No problem,” Brad answers. “I don’t mind doing it.”

He wonders if Patrice really understands the depth of their friendship; that there’s little, if anything, that Brad wouldn’t do for him. Fuck, he’s got it bad…

“Can I ask something?”

“You just did,” Brad grins, earning himself another eye-roll. “Sure, what’s up?”

“What’s all this about Pride Night just now?”

“Uh… I don’t know, just been thinking about it a lot recently,” Brad shrugs. It’s not exactly a lie. “I can’t be with anyone during the season until I come out, and it’s pretty lonely sometimes, that’s all.” _And there’s a gorgeous, amazing guy sitting across from me obliviously eating his soup and FOR CRHIST’S SAKE BERGERON DO YOU REALLY NOT KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT YOU?!_ He doesn’t say that part. It’s hard for him not to say things sometimes - this is one of those times - but for once Brad manages to keep something to himself and just takes a bite of his food.

“I’m sorry you’re lonely,” Patrice tells him quietly, in a tone that’s sympathetic, empathetic, sad and frustrated all at once.

Brad actually has to bite the side of his tongue not to blurt out _But I’m not lonely when I’m with you, Pat._ Instead he just shrugs for what feels like the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. “It’s not that bad. During the season I only think about it during bye weeks and stuff. Being with the team makes up for it most of the time.”

Patrice shakes his head. “That’s not okay,” his friend frowns. “It shouldn’t have to be that way for you. Do you at least have someone right now?”

“There’s a guy I’m interested in, but I haven’t talked to him yet about it,” Brad answers, unable to look at said guy while the words come out. He plays with his soup. “I’ve been here.”

“You can probably go home soon, I’m getting better. I think you should tell him how you feel.” Patrice is looking at him in a strangely pointed way.

“I don’t know, preseason starts in six weeks so that’s not really worth it,” Brad argues, solely for the illusion that he’s not fucking enamoured with his best friend.

“Can I change my answer from earlier, then? I’m really starting to think you _should_ come out publicly just so you can stop sneaking around.”

Brad makes a face and spoons up some soup only to put it back in the bowl. He can feel his ears turning red and that, of course, only makes things feel worse. “I’m scared, Pat.”

“I know.” Patrice reaches over to put a hand on Brad’s forearm. “But don’t you think it needs to happen? You’ve been talking about it alot the last couple days, it kind of sounds like you already made up your mind…”

Brad nods. “Yeah.” Now, instead of just feeling stupidly hopelessly in love with Patrice, he’s feeling stupidly hopelessly in love with Patrice and crushed by anxiety at the idea he’s deciding to apparently go through with. “The fans will riot, so at least gay rights in the NHL will have lots of attention, right?”

“The fans aren’t going to riot,” Patrice assures him. “It’ll probably make a lot of them really happy.” Then he starts to turn pink and look nervous. “Do you want me to do it with you?”

“Pat you don’t have to put yourself through that just to give me solidarity,” Brad answers. “Our team might be okay with me doing this, but the rest of the league will just use it against me to make me get into more fights and destroy my career.”

“But if we both do it, they’ll take you more seriously,” Patrice points out, still obviously uncomfortable with the idea regardless of his words.

“Bergy-”

“Don’t, okay? It needs to happen for me, too. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like.” Neither of them have finished their soup and it’s room temperature by now. “Like I said, if I do it too, people will take it seriously.”

Brad wants to argue - really, he does, and normally he doesn’t have a problem with it - because he hates so much the idea of Patrice suffering through something so awful as coming out publicly. It’s pretty much going to be Instant Disaster - Just Add Water! when it comes to the media coverage, to say nothing of the fucking internet’s reaction, and then of course all the other teams like Brad just said… not everyone’s going to be cool with this, and it would be unbelievably stupid to assume otherwise.

But on the other hand… the idea that he won’t have to go through this alone lightens Brad’s emotional burden by a lot. Patrice will be standing on his right, just like always, while they’re both willingly humiliated in front of the world. It’ll still be less horrific than getting “caught” by the media for the unspeakable crime of trying to date other men. Brad will be able to have relationships, like, _actual_ relationships with no sneaking around and resentment and all that bullshit. Maybe he’ll be able to meet someone who’ll take his attention off Patrice, who’s unattainable for dozens of reasons.

Of course, Patrice can see everything in his brain just by his expression, and squeezes his arm a little. “Brad, it’s going to be okay. I know it’ll probably suck at first, but we’re still going to play like normal and eventually things will be alright again.”

And because it’s Patrice saying this, Brad believes it. He swallows as he nods, because fuck if he’s not falling even harder for this man than he already was. Patrice is scared of the consequences just as much as Brad, but still manages to comfort him and convince him that life will stabilize again afterwards.

“Our food got cold,” Brad points out, because he’s not sure what else to say.

“It’s okay, your soup is still better,” Patrice smiles, hand staying on Brad’s arm.

From anyone else, it would be them obviously coming onto him. From Patrice, Brad knows it’s because he’s just too nice for his own good. So he just grins - “Thanks, man.” - and gets up to store the leftovers in the fridge.

They watch tv afterwards, like they’ve been doing after dinner these last couple days, because Patrice is obviously much better but is still resting on Brad’s insistence. He’s not actually paying attention, though, because Patrice is propped up half-sitting between some pillows and his shoulder. It’s absolutely killing Brad, since this wouldn’t be happening if his friend wasn’t still getting over the norovirus. Soaking in the warmth and closeness that he’ll probably never have access to again (at least not as much as he’s gotten being here), Brad dozes off by accident and wakes up at about the time he should be making Patrice go to sleep. Patrice is already slumbering, still cuddled up in the same spot he’d been in earlier.

Brad shuffles them both so they’re under the covers and turns off the tv - Patrice sort-of wakes and turns on his side to snuggle closer before drifting off again. Brad lets it happen without protest and slips into dreams with Patrice’s arms around him. Like this is how things should be, and it’s not creepy for Brad to allow it when the two of them are not, in fact, dating.

The next day is pretty boring, comparatively speaking. Patrice is pretty much back at a hundred percent, so they finish the soup for lunch, hang out some more, and have sandwiches for dinner. By this point Brad understands there’s no need for him to keep staying over (and besides, he REALLY needs a shower and to change his clothes). Trying to rip his skin off would probably feel more pleasant than leaving, but he does it anyway, insisting that Patrice should just text him if he needs anything.

Back at home in his own empty apartment, Brad has a very long shower and takes stock of things. He and Patrice are going to come out this season - that won’t be a shitshow at all. He’s even more ridiculously in love with his best friend than he was before this. He’s really lonely now, being by himself after spending multiple days with the most beautiful, perfect man on earth. Fuck, he’s got it bad!

Brad finally gets out of the shower once his fingers and toes are almost unrecognizably shriveled. He throws on boxers and a tee, then just stands there, not really knowing what he should be doing. Objectively, Brad’s not really that lost. He’s home and is physically capable of taking care of himself. Preseason starts in about a month and a half, so he’ll be getting back into his hockey routine relatively soon. But right now, for this moment, he’s drowning in the silent vacancy of his home.

Brad finally just lies down on his bed, sulking and missing Patrice and feeling sorry for himself. He wishes he was still over there, he wishes Patrice loved him back, he wishes professional sports weren’t so fucking homophobic, he wishes-

Brad’s phone goes off, letting him know he’s just received a text. He looks at it and grins in relief, because it’s Patrice.

 **Bergy:** _Wilson misses you. bored without you_ :(

 **Me:** _tell him i miss him too lol_

 **Bergy:** _come hang out again this weekend?_

 **Me:** _yeah sure man_

 **Bergy:** _great. could be sooner but I have to call my mom and beg for mercy after not flying up_

 **Me:** _lol shes going to kick your ass_

 **Bergy:** _yeah probably_

It’s stupid how much better Brad feels now that Patrice has texted him.

The next couple of days Brad doesn’t do anything exciting, just goes through his workout routines and pines after Patrice some more while watching tv. Then it’s Saturday afternoon and he’s going back to his best friend’s apartment.

“So did your mom kick your ass?” Brad asks instead of saying hello while walking through the door.

Patrice chuckles. “No, she just said she hopes I feel better and that I can try again in a couple weeks. Hey, don’t take your shoes off yet, I ordered Chinese for pick-up.”

“Okay, cool,” Brad nods.

They get into Patrice’s car. Patrice immediately traps him by asking this: “So, did you talk to that guy you like yet?” There are three seconds of silence. “That’s what I thought.”

“Pat-”

“Don’t even say it, Marchy. Yes, it really _is_ that simple. It’s always that simple. Besides, how long do you think this mystery guy is going to wait around for?” Now, Patrice pauses, before muttering, “Actually if it’s who I think it is, he’s probably dumb enough to wait forever for you to come to your senses…”

“What?”

“Never mind. You really should talk to him.”

“It’s not that simple!” Brad protests, then rolls his eyes at himself. Of course that’s what he went with. “I mean, he… you know what, no. It’s true, okay? It’s not that simple. He’s not interested in me.”

“Well, how do you know that?”

“Because he would’ve said something by now if he was!”

“Just like you’ve said something by now, right?” Patrice grins.

Brad scowls. “Shut up, Bergy.”

“I’m not going to shut up about this until you do it.”

“Why the hell not?” Brad demands.

“Because I’m a good friend,” Patrice answers, of course meaning it.

They argue about it a little more until they get to the Chinese place, at which point Patrice gets out of the car to go get the food. Brad spends that time stewing. Patrice is right (like always) but the threat of rejection still makes him need to keep it to himself. Brad’s not good at keeping things to himself and he knows it, hence being named the best and worst NHL trash-talker at the same fucking time, but for this he has to. Because it means the difference between being a functional human being and getting his soul ripped out, stomped on, and subsequently set on fire.

Patrice returns with the food and hands it over to Brad so he can drive. And then starts talking again. “You’re not off the hook, Bradley.”

“Can you just fucking drop it already?” he groans, exasperated.

“No. I told you, I’m not letting it go until you talk to this guy. Don’t you think he deserves it, too? Maybe he’s just as stupid as you are and has been waiting for you to say it for a long time.”

“Can you stop being persistent and shit?”

“I’m giving you every opportunity to do the right thing, Marchy. If you can’t manage that, I may have to resort to more drastic measures.”

“‘More drastic measures?’ You don’t even know who it is, how can you get ‘more drastic’ than annoying me to death?” Brad laughs.

“Like I said, I’m giving you every opportunity to do the right thing. I know you won’t, but you still deserve the chance anyway.”

Brad shakes his head and for once doesn’t say anything else. If Patrice knew the weight of the emotional pain Brad’s in, he wouldn’t be pushing so hard… of course if Patrice knew the weight of the emotional pain, he’d also know _why_ Brad’s in pain, so… yup. Complicated.

They get back to Patrice’s apartment and Brad doesn’t even have to ask to know that his friend got exactly what he wants to eat. They’ve been capable of confidently ordering each other’s food for years, now. Chinese food is pure junk and they shouldn’t be eating it, of course, but they rarely indulge in stuff like that and there’s still a little over five weeks before preseason, so it should be fine.

They sit side-by-side on the couch to eat. Brad immediately starts stuffing his face with beef lo mein to try and stop Patrice from harassing him again, at least for the time being. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work.

“Brad, why won’t you just do it?” Patrice sighs as he forks up some pork fried rice.

“I already told you, he’s not into me,” Brad grumbles once he’s done swallowing.

“You haven’t talked to him, so how do you know that?” Patrice’s voice has a strange note of hurt when he asks his next question. “Are you ashamed that you have feelings for this guy?”

“What? No! Of course I’m not ashamed,” Brad snaps. “Whether they’re interested in me back or not, I just want you to know I have fucking _great_ taste in men, Pat.”

Patrice nods slowly, looking… oddly unsure of himself. He’s turning pink and puts his food on the coffee table, looking pointedly at Brad’s plate. “Can you set that down for a second?”

“Um, sure?”

Brad complies, eyeing his friend. Patrice - very bizarrely - takes a deep breath, not saying anything. This behavior simultaneously makes more sense and even less sense when Brad is immediately grabbed by his shirt and yanked in for a kiss. It’s not that great, really, because Patrice is obviously too excited to do it right. Brad feels the same adrenalin and desperateness from his friend as when they’re going after the puck in game seven of the Stanley Cup finals, and he’s kissing back just as hard shortly before he fully realizes this is a thing that’s happening.

It’s only like that for a few seconds, though. They stop attacking each other’s mouths and instead kiss like actual people, realizing this is something they both want so there’s no reason for either of them to be scared. Eventually even that stops, because they’re still dependant on oxygen to survive after all. They’re both breathing way too hard and not looking at each other at first.

“Uh… I feel like I should say something smart, but I got nothing,” Brad admits. Then he swallows. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Yeah, well… I told you I’d have to resort to more drastic measures,” Patrice mumbles, sounding a little embarrassed. “You weren’t going to just act like an adult and tell me, so I had to do something.”

“That’s why you did it?” Brad asks, working very hard to stop his voice from whimpering. “Just to get me to admit it?”

Patrice shakes his head. “That’s not the only reason… there’s this guy I’m interested in, but I was having trouble talking to him about it like an adult, so…”

Brad raises both eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. How are you so damn oblivious? Z asked me once if we were dating!”

Brad’s mouth moves before his brain can catch up with it, but that’s nothing new. “So wait, are we dating now?”

“Do you want us to be dating?” Patrice asks.

“Yeah, of course I do,” Brad nods. “I’ve only been drooling over you for _years,_ Pat.”

And then they’re kissing again, much more pleasantly this time. Patrice tastes like Chinese food and his arms slide around Brad’s neck. Brad slowly relaxes back onto the couch, ending up mostly lying down with Patrice in his embrace. He’s so in love with this gorgeous man, but now he doesn’t have to pretend like he’s not anymore. All his remarks to the press, jokes to the team, half-sarcastic tweets always saying _I love Bergy THIS MUCH_ or something like it were always given under the guise of humor or the idea of an “epic bromance,” when really part of Brad was crying on the inside because he thought he could never have moments like this or say those things in a serious way.

Brad sinks deeper into the couch cushions, running his fingertips over Patrice’s face and hair while he does some more thinking. They’re going to come out in a few months during the season - Brad as gay, Patrice as bi, and the two of them together as a couple. The whole idea has lost about ninety percent of its terror-inducing capacity now that he knows Patrice will be with him through it. Not just for solidarity. Not just out of necessity. They’re just together now, full stop.

Brad could be giddy right now (and he probably will be later) but he’s too comfortable, being pressed into the couch and tenderly kissed by his boyfriend. Okay, maybe he _can_ feel a little giddy right now, because _Patrice Bergeron_ is his _boyfriend_ and that’s just fucking amazing.

Brad starts cracking up and Patrice pulls back enough to make a face at him for it. “What?”

“Nothing,” Brad answers, swallowing a fit of giggles with great difficulty. “You’re just perfect and I love you.”

Patrice rolls his eyes. “I love you too, Marchy. But I’m still not perfect and you need to stop saying that.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” Brad grins. “Just fucking admit you’re perfect already.”

“I’m really not,” he argues. “I still get penalties sometimes like everyone else, and if I was perfect I would’ve been better at talking about this in the first place. I also wouldn’t be cheating my diet with take-out.”

Brad shrugs instead of arguing those points. “Can we just go back to making out?”

Patrice rolls his eyes again, but it’s ruined by the huge smile he obviously can’t hold back. “Yeah, let’s go back to that.”

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who think these kinds of tropes aren't accurate to real life, I'd just like you to know this is almost scene-for-scene how I ended up with my boyfriend (with some extra angst injected in because... because). We were already friends, I took care of him in his apartment while he was sick, and by the end of the following weekend we were together. There was Chinese food involved, and his fucking cat kept head-butting me while I was trying to sleep.
> 
> Kudos are nice but they're also a little bit of a cop-out. Please comment.


End file.
